


Organic

by steelphoenix



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, hypothetical au fest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-18
Updated: 2011-12-18
Packaged: 2017-10-27 11:59:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/295620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/steelphoenix/pseuds/steelphoenix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>organic (adj.)<br/>3. (of food or farming methods) Produced or involving production without the use of chemical fertilizers, pesticides, or other artificial agents.<br/>7. Characterised by continuous or natural development.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Organic

**Author's Note:**

> A contribution for the [Hypothetical AU Fest](), hosted by salvadore-hart. The prompt was 'Farmers' market AU. Nate's selling his organic tomatoes or something equally delicious, and Brad's grumpily filling in for Walt at the next stall over.'

Nate is whistling cheerfully (if somewhat tunelessly) as he hauls a crate out of the back of his ancient Ford Transit. It's been a good morning, with a hot black coffee to start, and fresh morning air and hard work to keep him going. The tomatoes are looking beautifully ripe and red on the blue-clothed table, and he stacks crisp green beans in neat lines beside them.

"Goddammit, do you have to _whistle_?" comes a grumpy and quite unfamiliar voice from the next stall. He looks over in surprise. Instead of Walt, his usual neighbour, there is a very tall, muscular blond man; where Walt is all sunshine and happiness and enthusiasm, it's very clear that this guy would rather be just about anywhere but here.

"You're cheerful," comments Nate, sarcastically. He does stop whistling, though - he knows from painful experience that pissing off a neighbour is a bad idea. "Where's Walt?"

"He was a retard and decided that going for a run in the rain wasn't going to hurt. He's in bed with a fever." This is all delivered in a cool deadpan, and Nate's having trouble figuring out if the guy cares, doesn't, or is angry at Walt. "I'm his flatmate, so I got stuck with this shit." He gives a wry grin, and something about the way he says it makes Nate think that he doesn't mind doing Walt a favour.

"Well, I guess you're stuck with me for the day," says Nate, and introduces himself.

"I'm Brad," is the succinct reply, and he leans over, sticking out a hand; Nate shakes it. "And you really mean that _you're_ stuck with _me_."

Nate laughs. "I'll reserve judgement, thank you very much."

It turns out that Brad knows his stuff - possibly from Walt stuffing it down his throat, Nate _knows_ Walt's occasional overzealousness - and is actually quite good at selling. Sometime around mid-morning, Brad says something hilariously sarcastic, Nate replies with snark, and suddenly, there's a rapport there, a frisson of amusement and attraction. Something is growing, quick and fresh and organic, and it seems like no time at all before it's getting on for cleanup time.

There's a crash as Nate's set of scales falls down for the umpteenth time. They're the old-fashioned type with a hook at the top and a spring-balance, and whilst they're robust and reliable, they have a tendency to fall down if bumped too hard. The customer is apologising profusely, and Nate heads around to pick them up - only to find Brad already there.

"Oh... thanks," he says, and Brad looks up from where he's on his knees, helping the customer pick up the spilled yams. His eyes are brilliant blue and laughing, his smile bright. Seeing Brad on his knees, looking up, sends a jolt straight to his cock, the attraction solidifying into _want_. It's hard to take a breath, but he does, and kneels to pick up and re-hang the scale. The moment is over as soon as it has begun.

The last half-hour drags interminably, Nate noticing everything that Brad does, hyperaware of his presence. It's thrilling and uncomfortable at the same time. They help each other pack down, and every time their hands or arms brush, Nate feels a spark of electricity through him.

Finally, they're done. Reluctantly, Nate goes over to Walt's pickup, "See you round, I hope?" he says, trying not to hope too much.

Brad looks over at him, and for a second it feels like his eyes are boring right through Nate, going straight to the _real_ reason for his question. A slow smile spreads across his lips. "Yeah, I guess I will."

\---

It's another Saturday morning, and once again, Nate is whistling cheerfully as he unpacks vegetables.

"Didn't I tell you to stop whistling?"


End file.
